On Persistence

The needle drives through without difficulty but the metal is hot and makes fingers slippery and foolhardy. A simple slip and red emerges victorious down the edges of everything, pulled away. Her legs are numb. The rest of her hasn’t felt anything for years anyhow. Keep driving, plunging, pushing, pulling. The shape has been nebulous for as long as she can remember. Printed nicely upon pieces of shiny paper hung expertly over the inner walls, it beckons to be fashioned in its true form, hidden beneath a haze of misrepresented dimensions. A misguided tug yields ferociousness of near fatal repercussions. Don’t fucking blink. Keep still. Arc here, angle there, split this into that until all of it comes together in glorious patchwork. She bounces her right leg up and down, working the pedal in unison with the fear that drips down her neck.

She cranes her head forward and blinks. Don’t fucking blink, you idiot. She chances a moment with the back of her hand and the eyes that line the outer walls like a damask of ocular nightmare sharply focus their attention. Her breath abates for only a moment and then quickly resumes. A voice that speaks less in words than in sounds that drive and bore into one’s skull reverberates throughout the cramped room but says nothing. She does not shrink away and only pushes forward with more resolve. Her right leg bounces up and down but does not feel anything.

At the center of it all a maw creeps opens, adorned with teeth and flesh and the recesses of oblivion. She averts her eyes as a lamb descends from the ceiling, bleating to no one, oblivious to the perilous nature of its predicament. She must keep focus on the needle and her fingers. A warm drop from above adorns her forehead. Don’t fucking blink. She uses her index and middle fingers on both hands to expertly push the cloth forward but the screams that arise and the sight of the mashing extends above her periphery and for a moment she gazes upward until her numb hands are caught in the mass and is carried in headfirst and the last thing she hears is a sound not unlike the shaking of mountains.

by Dan Diehn (@diedan)